Chapter III: Part 3

Poor Mary! Her thoughts flew to the empty post-office upstairs. Not a penny in it. No squirrel for Jackie, no drive to Dorminster for her. As she remembered what a jolly little squirrel it was, what bright eyes it had, what soft red-brown fur, and how Jackie would have liked it, her heart swelled. Now, she must go to his birthday party empty-handed, and it would have been the best present there.

With eyes full of tears and a scarlet flush on her cheeks she muttered very low:

"I've changed my mind. I don't want to buy the squirrel."

"You don't want the squirrel!" repeated Mrs Vallance in great surprise.

"N-no," stammered Mary, and she put her head suddenly down on the table and cried.

Mrs Vallance was much perplexed and very sorry for Mary's distress, for she knew how she had looked forward to giving the squirrel to Jackie. It was not like her to change her mind about such an important matter for any slight cause.

"I'm afraid you and Jackie have been quarrelling," she said, stroking Mary's hair gently; "but if I were you I should take this opportunity of making it up. Give him the squirrel and be friends, and then you'll be happy again."

How Mary wished she could! She made no answer, only sobbed more bitterly, and felt that she was the most miserable child in the world.

For now she had no longer any hope. Evidently nothing would happen to discover the gypsies and save the chickens. The days went on with cruel quickness, and Monday would be here in no time--a black Monday indeed.

Sunday morning came, and she sat with those thoughts in her mind by Mrs Vallance's side, and looked round at all the well-known objects in church with a half feeling that one of them might help her. They were such old friends. From the painted window opposite the twelve apostles in their gorgeous coloured robes had gazed seriously down at her every Sunday for the last five years. Much study of them during sermon time, though she always tried to attend, had made her quite familiar with their faces, and to-day she fancied that Peter would be the one she would choose to ask for advice and assistance. Turning from these her eye fell on another acquaintance of her earliest childhood--the life-size stone figure of a man. He lay in a niche in the chancel, peacefully at rest on his side, with closed eyes and one hand under his cheek. He had a short peaked beard and wore an enormous ruff; his face looked very grave and quiet--so quiet that it always filled Mary with a sort of awe. He had lain there for more than three hundred years, undisturbed by pain, or trouble, or joy. Would he be sorry for her, she wondered, if he knew how unhappy she was? But no--he would not mind-- his calm face would not alter; "nothing matters any more," it seemed to say. There was no comfort for her there. With a sigh she turned a little to the right where the Chelwoods sat--the Squire and Mrs Chelwood in front, and Fraulein with the children behind. Restless Jackie, to whom it was torture to sit still so long, was not ready as usual to catch her eye, for he was following with breathless interest, which Patrick shared, the progress of a large black spider towards Fraulein's ungloved hand. Fraulein was very frightened of spiders, and there was every reason to hope that, when it touched her hand, she would give a great jump and shriek out "Himmel!"

Mary's glance wandered further, but suddenly it stopped short, for at last it was met and answered by another pair of eyes, dark and eager, with such longing earnestness in their gaze, that she felt as though she could not look away again. For a minute, which seemed a long, long time, she stared fixedly at them, and then began to wonder who it was that took so much interest in her. It was a tall woman of about thirty, who sat among the servants from the White House; a stranger, with nothing remarkable about her except the extreme plainness of her dress, and a certain hungry expression in her eyes. "I wonder who she is," thought Mary, "and why she stares at me like that."

She turned her head away again, and five minutes afterwards the service was over and the congregation clattering out of the church. As she stood in the porch waiting for the Chelwood children the strange woman came quickly up to her, and, bending down, said hurriedly:

"Might I ask, missie, what your name is?"

"My name's Mary Vallance," said Mary.

The woman shrank back, and the eager light died out of her eyes.

"Thank you, missie. I ask pardon," she murmured, and passing on went quickly down the churchyard to the gate.

What an odd woman! When the children were all walking together towards the vicarage they passed her, and Mary asked who she was.

"That?" said Agatha. "Oh, that's our new school-room maid."

"She only came yesterday," added Jennie. "She comes from Yorkshire. And what do you think? When Patrick first heard she was coming he said he was sure he shouldn't like her; and when Rice asked him why, he said, `Because I hate Yorkshire pudding so.'"

"Well," said Patrick, "it's the only thing I know about Yorkshire."

"But you oughtn't to judge people by puddings," said Agatha reprovingly.

"Anyhow," returned Patrick, "she doesn't _look_ nice--there's such a great big frown on her forehead. I expect she's cross."

"No, she's not cross," said Jackie, "she's sorry; mother told us all about it. She lost her child a long while ago. That's what makes her look grave. Mother says we ought to be very kind to her."

"Jennie and I shall have most to do with her," remarked the matter-of-fact Agatha, "because she's going to brush our hair instead of Rice."

They had now reached the vicarage gate, and Jackie lingered after the rest to have a few last words with Mary.

"You'll come early to-morrow afternoon, won't you?" he said, "because I want to show you my presents before the others come. I know what two of 'em are going to be. Jolly! Something _you'll_ like as well."

Jackie cut a high caper of delight as he spoke, in spite of its being Sunday and Fraulein quite near. His pleasure in anything was always doubled if Mary could share it. That was so nice of Jackie. It made it all the more distressing at that moment to remember that she could give him no present to-morrow, besides the mortification of appearing mean and stingy to the other children. She began to think that it would be almost better to give up going to his birthday party. But what excuse could she make? Then another idea came to her. Was there anything among her own possessions that he would like to have? She ran them over in her mind. Books? Jackie hated books; it was only under strong pressure that he would ever open one, and she could not pretend to be ignorant of this. If only Jackie were a girl! Then she could give him her work-box, which was nearly new, or a doll, or a set of tea-things, but it was no use to think of that. Still pondering the matter she went upstairs into her own little room, and the moment she entered her eye fell on the little clog standing in the middle of the mantel-piece. The very thing! Jackie had often and often admired it, and though everyone would know that she had not spent any money in getting it, still it would be much much better than having nothing at all to give. She took it off the mantel-piece and polished it up with her pocket-handkerchief. Dear little clog, she would be sorry to part with it, and it would leave a great gap among the other ornaments, but still it must go--after all it would not go far, only to the White House. Thinking thus, and rubbing it meanwhile, she noticed for the first time that there were two letters faintly scratched on the wooden sole, "BM." Who was BM? "Perhaps that's my name," she thought; "but I don't want to know it if it is. I'd rather be Mary Vallance." And then the dark faces of Perrin and Seraminta came before her and she frowned. How hateful it was to belong to them! She, Mary Vallance, who had always been so proud and delicate in her ways, so vain of her white skin, and so sure, only the other day, that her people were rich and great. That was all over now; even Rice could not call her "Tossy" any more.

It was in a very humble and downcast spirit that she paid a farewell visit to the fowls on Monday afternoon, before starting for the White House. The white bantams had become very tame, and when they pecked the corn out of her hand it was almost too much to bear. It was the last time she should feed them! Angry tears filled her eyes as she thought how they would be stolen that night; she longed to punish the gypsy people, and yet she was powerless in their hands, and must even help them in their wickedness. Poor Mary! She was very unhappy, and surprised that nothing happened to prevent it. It seemed so hard and cruel. Nevertheless, every step she took that afternoon towards the White House was bringing her nearer to help and comfort, though she did not know it.

Jackie came running to meet her in the hall, arrayed in his best suit and best manners.

"Come along into the school-room," he said, "and see the presents."

While he was showing them to her, two little heads looked in at the open window from the garden. They were Patrick and Jennie.

"We've guessed what your present is, Mary," they both cried at once.

The twins were such tiresome children! If there was an uncomfortable thing to say, they always said it.

"I'm sure you haven't," answered Mary sharply.

"It comes from Dorminster," said Patrick grinning.

"And it begins with S," added Jennie.

"It lives in a cage," chimed in Patrick.

"And eats nuts," finished Jennie in a squeaky voice of triumph.

Their little eager tormenting faces came just above the window sill: Mary felt inclined to box their ears.

Jackie, who was a polite boy, pretended not to hear. He knew quite well that Mary had brought him a present, and he more than suspected what it was, but this was a most improper way to refer to it.

"Shut up, will you," he said, and just at that minute Agatha came into the room with some visitors. They had all brought presents, and Mary knew by the way Agatha stared at her that she was wondering where hers was. Perhaps it would be better to give the clog now, though she had intended to wait until she and Jackie were alone. She was drawing it out of her pocket when Fraulein, who had been admiring the various gifts and chattering away in broken English, said suddenly:

"And vair is Mary's present? It is zumzing ver pretty, ver nice, ver wot you call `jollie,' I suppose. Zumzing better zan all, as she and Jean are so attach."

This speech changed Mary's intention. She was ashamed to produce the clog now. She drew her hand out of her pocket empty, gave a proud toss of the head, and said with crimson cheeks:

"I haven't brought anything."

There was silence in the room. Every eye was fixed upon her; it was the most cruel moment of her life. Even Jackie flushed hotly, turned away, and began to pull out all the blades of a new pocket-knife someone had given him.

How stupid it was of Fraulein not to let the matter drop, without saying anything more! Instead of this she held up her hands and exclaimed:

"Est-ce possible? Do I onderstand? Nozing? You have not brought nozing for Jean's jour de fete? But perhaps I do not onderstand?"

It was so irritating to see her standing there waiting for an answer, that Mary, never very patient, lost her temper completely.

"No, you don't understand. You _never_ do," she said, and rushed out of the room into the garden. She ran quickly when she once got outside, for she felt that she could not get far enough away from the whole party in the school-room; from Fraulein with her stupid remarks, from the visitors who had all stared in surprise, even from Jackie who misunderstood. But it was natural, after all, that he should do that. How could he know she had brought anything for him? And now she had been rude to Fraulein, and made his party uncomfortable. She wondered presently whether they would come after her, and persuade her to go back; it would be unkind if they did not, and yet she would rather be alone just then. There was no one following her, and she thought she would go somewhere out of sight. The nut-walk would be best. So she turned into the kitchen-garden, and soon came to the nut-walk; the trees grew on each side of it with their branches meeting overhead, and in one of the biggest Jackie had contrived to fix a sort of perch made out of an old board. There was a convenient notch a little lower down, where you could place your feet, and it was considered a most comfortable seat, amply large enough for two. Mary was fond of sitting there, and now it seemed a sort of refuge in distress; she swung herself up into it, sat down, and leaned her bare head against the branches at the back. Through the thick leaves she could see a long way--all over the kitchen-garden, and a bit of the lawn near the house, and the brown roof of the stables, where the pigeons sat in a long row. When the children came out she should see them too, she thought, but she need not join them unless she liked. For some time the garden was very quiet, and she began to think that perhaps they meant to play indoors. That was not at all like Jackie, who always liked a game with a good deal of running in it, and besides, he _must_ want to know where she was. It was rather dull, after all, to sit there alone, while the others were enjoying themselves. Should she go a little nearer the house? Just as she thought this, she was startled by a distinct cry of "Whoop!" which seemed to come from the walk below. She peeped down through the leaves. There was Jackie crouching in a frog-like attitude behind a tree, with his limbs gathered into the smallest possible compass. The rustling made him look up, and he held out his hand with all the fingers outstretched, and a sudden grimace which meant "Don't speak." They were playing hide-and-seek.

Mary knew better than to spoil the game, but she gave a beseeching glance at him, and beckoned. Jackie shook his head; evidently his feelings were hurt, and he did not mean to be friends just yet. Mary was in despair. How could she manage to speak to him? Perhaps this was her only chance of doing so alone. From her perch she could see the pursuers scouring wildly about in a wrong direction at present, but soon they could not fail to search the nut-walk, and then it would be too late. She took the little clog from her pocket, cautiously descended the tree, and creeping up to Jackie, placed the parcel noiselessly at his side. It was neatly folded in white paper, and had his name written on it in elegant fancy letters. Jackie turned his head and saw the inscription:

"For Jackie, with Mary's love."

His screwed-up mouth widened into a grin, he picked it up, turned it round and round, and at last whispered hoarsely:

"Why didn't you give it before?"

"Because of Fraulein," answered Mary in the same tone; "they're a long way off. Come up into the tree."

Both children were soon tightly wedged into the nut-tree seat, and Jackie at once began to examine his package; watching his face, Mary could see that he was surprised when the clog appeared, though he tried to hide it by another grin.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"It's the only thing I had," explained Mary hurriedly. "I meant to give you _such_ a nice thing. I saved my money, and I had enough. You _would_ have liked it so--" She stopped and sobbed a little under her breath.

Jackie said nothing. He was evidently wondering why she had not given him this nice thing. The reason was such a dreadful reason, and it was so hard not to be able to explain it all to him, that Mary could not keep back her tears: she bit her lip, and screwed up her face, but it was useless, they would come, so she leant her forehead against Jackie's velveteen shoulder, and cried in good earnest, without saying another word. Jackie was both startled and uncomfortable; the tree quite shook with the violence of Mary's sobs, and her long hair got into his eyes and tickled his face as he sat, screwed up close to her in the narrow perch. He did not mind that, but he was very sorry indeed to see her so unhappy, and could not think how to comfort her. Lately he had seen her cry several times, but never as badly as this. What could be the matter? With some difficulty he tugged out of his pocket a small handkerchief, which by a lucky chance was perfectly clean, and, raising her face a little, dabbed her eyes softly with it.

"Don't," he whispered. "I like the shoe awfully--_much_ better than the other thing you were going to give me. Don't cry."

But Mary cried on.

"You don't surely mind what that owl of a Fraulein said, do you?" continued Jackie.

"N-no," said Mary.

"What are you crying for, then?"

If she could only tell him!

"Is it anything about the Secret?" asked Jackie.

No answer.

"I expect it is," he went on in an excited whisper. "But you ought to tell me, you know, however horrid it is. Is it horrid?"

Mary nodded. There was comfort even in that, though she must not say anything.

Jackie leant eagerly forward. Splash! Fell a great rain-drop on the tip of his nose, and a pelting shower quickly followed. Patter, patter, fell the fast-falling rain on the leaves above the children's heads, sprinkling Mary's yellow hair and Jackie's best velveteen suit.

"We must go in," he said; "all the others have gone. _Won't_ you just tell me first?"

"I can't tell you," said Mary mournfully. "And I don't want to go in. I should like to stop here always."

"Well, you couldn't do that, you know," said Jackie gravely. "There's no roof, and you'd get wet through, and hungry too. Come along."

He gave her hand a gentle pull, and prepared to descend. As he cautiously lowered one leg, a woman with a shawl over her head came running down the nut-walk; it was Maggie, the new school-room maid.

"Why, there you are, Master Jackie," she said; "we've been looking everywhere for you. You're to come in out of the rain this minute, please. And have you seen Miss Mary? Marcy me, my dear, where did you get yon?"

She pointed excitedly to the little shoe which Jackie still held.

"Mary gave it me," he answered.

Without further ceremony this strange woman seized the shoe from him, and with trembling hands turned it over and looked closely at the wooden sole. Then she clasped it to her breast, and with a sudden light in her eyes exclaimed:

"I knew it. I felt it was her. Heaven be praised!" and before Jackie had at all regained his breath, she had rushed away down the nut-walk, and was out of sight.

Mary, who had remained unseen, looked down from the tree.

"Isn't she an odd woman?" she said. "Do you think she's mad? Or perhaps those are Yorkshire ways."

"If they are," replied Jackie much ruffled and discomposed, "I don't like Yorkshire ways at all. What business has she to cut away like that with my shoe?"

There was something mysterious altogether about Maggie's behaviour, for when the children reached the house they found that the others were full of excitement and curiosity. She had been seen to rush wildly in from the garden with the little shoe hugged to her breast, and now she had been talking to mother alone for a long while. But soon tea-time came, all manner of games followed, and the school-room maid was forgotten in more interesting matters. Even Mary was able to put away her troubles for a little while, and almost to enjoy herself as she had been used before they began. She was to stop at the White House that night, because it was still wet and stormy, so she resolved not to think of the chickens or Perrin or Seraminta just for that one evening. It would be time enough to be miserable again when morning came.

Everything went on merrily until Jackie's guests were all gone away.

"What shall we do now?" he said, yawning a little, for there was still an hour to be filled up before bed-time. Just as he spoke Mrs Chelwood came into the school-room.

"Children," she said, "would you like me to tell you a story?"

Nothing could possibly be better, and the offer came at the right moment when things were feeling a little flat; the children received it joyfully, and gathered round their mother eagerly, and yet with a certain seriousness, for it was an honour as well as a delight to have a story from her--it happened so seldom.

"This is a story," began Mrs Chelwood when they were all settled, "which I have only just heard myself, and it is a true one. It has something to do with one of Jackie's presents to-day."

"I wonder which?" said Jackie, rubbing his knees.

"You shall hear," said his mother. "Now, listen.

"Once there was a poor mother who lived far away from here in the north of England, and worked in a factory. She had only one child, which she loved so fondly that it was more than all the world to her, and though she had to work very hard all day, it seemed quite light and easy for the child's sake."

"Why didn't the father work?" asked Agatha.

"The father was dead."

"Was it a boy or a girl?" asked Patrick.

"And what was its name?" added Jennie.

"It was a little girl," said Mrs Chelwood, "and she was called Betty."

"But Betty isn't a name," objected Agatha, "it's short for something."

"In the north it is used as a name by itself," replied Mrs Chelwood; "many of the children there are christened Betty, and so was this little girl, though she was very seldom called so."

"Why?" asked Mary.

"Because the people in the village had given her a nickname. They called her `Little Clogs.'"

"What a frightful name to give her!" said Agatha. "What did they do it for?"

"Because she was so proud of a tiny pair of shoes which someone had made for her. They were exactly like that one Mary gave Jackie, and they are properly called `clogs.'"

"They're not a bit like the clogs Mrs Moser, the charwoman, wears," said Agatha.

"If you interrupt me so often I shall never finish my story," said her mother. "Well, this poor mother couldn't take her child with her into the factory, so she used to leave her with a friend close by, and fetch her after her work. But one evening when she went as usual there was no baby to be found--she was gone!"

"Where?" said Mary.

"No one knew. She had been stolen away, or lost, and on the door-step, where she had been playing, there was one little clog left."

"Who had stolen her?" asked Mary anxiously.

"They heard later that a fair-skinned child had been seen with gypsies on the road to London, but that was not till long afterwards. For years the mother heard no news of her, and wandered up and down the country with the one little clog in her hand seeking her: she felt sure she should know her again, though all this time the child was growing up, and was a baby no longer. But the mother never quite despaired, and she had a feeling that somehow the little clog would help her in her search: on its wooden sole, as well as on that of the lost one, she had scratched two letters--BM.

"So the time went on and on. It was seven long years after she had lost her child that the mother heard of a situation in a place called Wensdale, and went there to live. Now you can tell me the mother's name."

"Why, of course, it must be Maggie," said Jackie, who had been staring fixedly at Mary for the last two minutes with his mouth wide open; "and that's why she caught hold of my shoe and--"

"Let me finish the story," said Mrs Chelwood, "and then you shall talk about it as much as you like. In this very place there was a little girl living at the vicarage who had been left in the garden there by gypsies seven years ago. She had a funny little shoe with her when she was found, and had kept it ever since; and now, perhaps, you know who that little girl is."

"It's me!" cried Mary, starting up--"it's my shoe--and I saw the letters--and I don't belong to the gypsies after all, and--"

"My dear," said the squire, putting his head in at the door, "I'm too muddy to come in, but you'll all be glad to hear that we've caught those rascals and they're all in Dorminster jail."

Mrs Chelwood hurried out of the room, and the children all began to talk at once, to ask questions, to exclaim, to wonder if the gypsies would be hanged, and so on. Presently, however, it was found that Mary had strange and dreadful experiences to relate. A silence fell upon the others until she had finished, and then they looked at her with a sort of awe.

"So our chickens won't be stolen," she repeated, "and that dreadful Seraminta can't take me away."

"It's a tremendously puzzling thing though," said Jackie reflectively; "here you've got two mothers, you see, and two names. How will you manage, and where will you live?"

"She's only got one _real_ mother," cried Patrick.

"And one _real_ name," said Jennie.

"And shall you mind," continued Jackie seriously, "about not being grand? You're not Lady anything, you see, but just `Betty.'"

"I don't want to be grand any more," said Mary earnestly, "and I don't mind anything else one bit, now I don't belong to the gypsies."

"How glad your last mother--no, I mean your first mother--must be," said Agatha, "that someone made you that Pair of Clogs."

This was only one of many and many a conversation amongst the children on the same subject during several following weeks. And what a wonderful subject it was! Surely never had such a strange thing happened in a quiet village as this discovery of Mary's mother, and as to Mary herself, she was now surrounded by an air of romance which was more interesting than any story-book. If she could only have remembered a little about that time she passed with the gypsies! But none of Jackie's earnest appeals to "try hard" produced any results, for all that part of her life was wiped as clean out of her memory as when one washes marks off a slate with a sponge. It was all gone, and when she looked back it was not Seraminta and Perrin and the donkey-cart she saw, but the kind faces of Mr and Mrs Vallance and her happy, pleasant home at the vicarage. And yet, though her earliest recollections were of these, she did not in truth belong to them; they were not her people, and sunny Wensdale was not her place; Maggie was her mother, and cold, grey Haworth on the hillside was her real home. It was, as Jackie had said, a most puzzling thing, and the important question arose--would Mary have to go away? It was wildly irritating to be shut out from all the talks and conferences which were always going on now between Mary's two mothers and Mrs Chelwood. The children felt that it was more their concern than anyone's, but they were told nothing, and the air of the school-room was so full of excitement and curiosity that Fraulein was in despair. The slightest noises in the house during lesson time now seemed to carry deep meaning--perhaps only a bell ringing, or some one shutting the door of mother's sitting-room, but it was enough to make Jackie put down his slate-pencil and look at Mary with an awestruck and impressive gaze. She would give an answering nod of intelligence, and Patrick and Jennie, not to be left out in the cold, would at once begin to nod rapidly at each other, as much as to say, "We understand too." It was only Agatha who took her placid way undisturbed. But the day came when, matters being at last arranged, the children were told all about it, and this is what they heard:

Mary was to spend a year with her real mother at Haworth, and a year with Mrs Vallance at Wensdale, alternately, until she was eighteen years old. On her eighteenth birthday she might choose at which of these two homes she would live altogether.

"If you _could_ choose," Jackie had once said to her in jest, "whose daughter would you be?"

And now, in years to come, the choice would really have to be made--the choice between Haworth and Wensdale, hard work and idleness, poverty and riches. Which would it be?

"Of course," was Jackie's first remark, "you'll choose Wensdale, won't you?"

But so many strange things had happened lately to Mary that she did not just now feel as if anything was "of course."

STORY TWO, CHAPTER 1.

BUZLEY'S COURT.

"It's a terr'ble lonesome part from what I hear tell. Miles from the rail, and the house don't stand as it might be in the village street, but by itself in the fields. Mrs Roy--that's the Reverend Roy's wife-- was very straight with me about it. `If you think, Mrs Lane,' says she, `that your daughter'll find the place too dull and far away I'd rather you'd say so at once, and I'll look out for another girl. It's not at all like London,' says she, `and I make no doubt Biddy will feel strange at first.'"

Mrs Lane wielded a large Britannia metal teapot as she spoke, kept an eye on the sympathetic neighbour sitting opposite at the tea-table, and also contrived to cast a side glance at Biddy, who stood at the fire making toast and listening to the conversation. She had heard her mother say much the same thing a great many times since it had been settled that she was to go to Wavebury and take care of Mrs Roy's baby, and she was now quite used to hearing that it was a "lonesome" place, though she did not know what it meant. At any rate it must be something impossible to get at Number 6 Buzley's Court, Whitechapel, where she had lived all the thirteen years of her life. Perhaps she might find it pleasant to be "lonesome," she thought, and yet her mother always added the word "terr'ble" to it, as if it were a thing generally to be disliked.

Meanwhile the conversation went on:

"And she goes to-morrow, then?" said Mrs Jones. "Now I dessay it's a fairish long journey by rail?"

"We've got all directions wrote out clear, by the Reverend Roy hisself," answered Mrs Lane proudly. "Biddy, reach me that letter out of the chany jug on the shelf."

Receiving it, she flattened it carefully out on the table with the palm of her hand before the admiring eyes of Mrs Jones, and, pointing to each word, read out slowly and loudly the directions for Biddy's journey.

"She gets out, yer see, at Canley station. That's as far as the rail goes. There she'll be met and druv over to Wavebury--eight miles, Mrs Roy said."

"Dear!" exclaimed Mrs Jones, as the letter was folded up again, "what a outlandish place!"

"We've worked hard, Biddy and me," continued Mrs Lane with a glance of pride at her daughter and a little sigh, "to get all her things nice and ready. Two new dark laylock prints I've got her."

"With a spot?" inquired Mrs Jones full of interest.

"No, with a sprig--I always think there's an air about a laylock print with a sprig. It looks respectable and like service. I don't hold with them new-patterned bright cottons. Once in the wash-tub, and where are they afterwards? Poor ragged-out things not fit to wear. I remember I had laylock prints when I first went to service as a gal, and there's bits of them very gowns in the patch-work quilt yonder."

"Ah!" said Mrs Jones admiringly. Then looking at Biddy's capable little square figure she added, "You'll miss her at first a goodish bit at home."

"If it wasn't that baby's out of hand now and runnin' about I couldn't let her go, not if it was ever so," replied Mrs Lane emphatically. "But I shall rub along somehow, and seven pounds a year's a consideration. Yes, she's a handy gal, Biddy is, with children. She had ought t'know summat about 'em, for she's helped to bring six of 'em up. There was Stevie--a deal of trouble we had with him. Always weakly, and cut his teeth in his legs. Never out of arms, that child wasn't, till he was pretty nigh two year old. I never should a' reared him if it hadn't been for Biddy. That I own."

On the subject of Stevie's sufferings Mrs Lane had always a great deal to say, and when she paused, less from lack of matter than want of breath, Mrs Jones took up the tale and added experiences of a like nature. Biddy therefore heard no further reference to herself and her prospects, and pursued her own thoughts undisturbed. And she had a great deal to think of, for to-morrow she was going into the world! She would say good-bye to Buzley's Court and to all the things and people in it she had known and lived with, and turn her face to meet new things and new people. Nothing would be familiar to her in that strange world, not even tea-cups with blue rims like these she was washing up for the last time. Everything new, down to the two lilac prints, made longer than ever before, lying at the bottom of the new black box. It was wonderful to think of, and very confusing to the mind. There would even be a new baby to look after. But when Biddy reached this point she smiled securely, for she had no fears about the baby, though Mrs Roy had looked so doubtfully at her and said that she was small. Small! What had that to do with it? Biddy felt in herself a large capacity for handling babies. Had she not brought Stevie through teething attended with alarming complications? She was not likely to think much of Mrs Roy's baby after that.

And indeed Biddy was one of those people who seem formed by nature in body and mind on purpose to be nurses. The babies were comfortable in her strong capable arms, and their little woes and troubles were quieted and soothed by her patient placid temper. Then, too, she had, as her mother had said, a great deal of experience, for though she was only thirteen years old now, she had always, ever since she could remember anything, had a baby on her mind. A baby had always been the chief circumstance in her life from the time when she was too small to do anything but keep watch by its cradle, to that when she learnt her lessons for school with a baby in her arms. In her play-hours, when the children of Buzley's Court gathered to enjoy themselves after their own manner in the summer evenings, Biddy looked on from the door-step--with the baby. By the time baby number one was beginning to stagger about, and seize upon knives and scissors and other dangerous playthings, baby number two--pink and incapable--was ready for Biddy's closest attention. Life, therefore, without a baby on hand would have seemed to her unnatural and even impossible; and the baby at Wavebury, instead of something to be dreaded, was the only idea her mind rested on with the confidence of long familiarity.

"For babies," she thought, "are pretty much alike. There's fat ones and there's thin ones. The fat ones don't cry so much, and the thin ones do, and that's about the only way they differ."

That night was a very short one to Biddy, and it seemed to her that she was still asleep and dreaming as she and her mother hurried along the cold grey streets in the early morning. Even when they reached the station, much too soon for the train, she could hardly take in the sense of all her mother was repeating to her so earnestly, though she heard the words.

Not to lean against the door, not to lose her ticket, not to forget her box, or the name of the station she was going to. Finally, to be a good gal and mind her work, and remember to say her prayers, and to give Mrs Lane's dooty to her mistress. All of which she promised, and presently found herself seated in a third-class carriage clasping in one hand her cotton umbrella, and in the other a small shiny black bag which Mrs Lane called a "ridicule." Then, when she saw her mother standing alone on the platform, she began to wake up and to feel that it was no dream or anything like one. She was really setting forth by herself for a "lonesome" place where there would be no mother. Mother had scolded sometimes, and said sharp things on washing days, but she was fond of Biddy, and proud of her too, and Biddy knew it; the tears rose to her eyes as the train moved away, and as long as she could she waved the "ridicule" in answer to mother's energetic farewells with her umbrella. But soon, the train quickening its pace, the familiar figure was lost to sight--checked shawl, best black bonnet, gingham umbrella, all vanished, and Biddy was alone, whirling along rapidly towards strange places and people.

Then, for one minute, she felt she must "give way," but not having been used to such a luxury in Buzley's Court, where there was never a moment to spare, she thought better of it, winked back the tears, and sat very upright.

Soon there were plenty of surprising things to be seen out of the window, and first the exceeding greenness of the landscape struck her with astonishment, although it was November and the trees were bare. Then, as she got further into the country, she wondered to see so few houses. "Where does the folks bide?" she said to herself. It seemed an empty sort of place, with nothing going on, and Mrs Roy had been quite right when she had said, "The country's not at all like London." Biddy's round brown eyes were still staring out of the window with a fixed expression of surprise when the short winter day began to close in, and a misty gloom spread over the fields and hills as they seemed to chase each other hurriedly past. But though she still tried to look out, and sat stiffly upright in her corner, her head nodded forward now and then, and the whirr and rattle of the train sounded with a sort of sing-song in her weary ears. She struggled to keep awake, but her eyelids seemed pressed down by some determined hand, and at last she gave it up and let them remain closed. After that she was conscious of nothing till she heard a shout of "Canley station!" quite near her, and she jumped up with a start and saw a porter holding the carriage door open; the light of his lantern shone on the wet pavement, but everywhere else it was quite dark and raining fast.

"Oh, please," said Biddy, "I'm to get out; and is there anyone here from Wavebury?"

She had repeated this sentence so often to herself that it came out now without the least effort.

"All right!" said the porter good-naturedly, "you come alonger me;" and he helped Biddy out and opened her umbrella for her, and asked if she had any luggage. Then diving into the van he reappeared with the precious black box on his shoulder, and led the way along the dripping platform.

"There's a gen'leman waiting for yer," he said.

Outside the little station there was a flickering gas-lamp, and by its light Biddy saw a farmer's spring-cart standing in the road with a small rough pony harnessed to it; in it there sat a young man very much muffled up in a number of cloaks--he wore a wide-awake pulled well down over his face, and was smoking a pipe. "Can it be the Reverend Roy?" thought Biddy.

But she had not time to wonder long, for he turned quickly towards her.

"Are you the little girl for Truslow Manor?" he asked; and then continued, speaking so rapidly that there was no answer needed:

"All right--here you are--give me your hand. Rather a high step. Take care. Capital!" as Biddy struggled up with the porter's help, and arrived, umbrella and all, flat at the driver's feet in the bottom of the cart.

"Now, then," he went on, having picked her up and placed her on the narrow seat at his side, "put this on, and this, and this."

He plunged into the back of the cart and produced numerous shawls and wraps, which he threw upon the breathless Biddy, talking all the while.

"You'll find it fresh up on the downs. Where's your box? In at the back? All right! Then off we go!"

Biddy was quite confused and "put about" by this impetuous behaviour, and she had just made up her mind that this was _not_ the Reverend Roy, when her ideas were upset by the porter, who called out, "Good-night, Mr Roy!" as they drove away. Parsons in the country were, then, different from those in London, like everything else. It was surprising to find them so "short and free in their ways."

To her relief he did not speak to her again, but puffed away at his pipe in silence while they crawled slowly up a long hill leading out of the town. But this quiet pace did not last, for, the road becoming level, the pony took to a kind of amble which seemed its natural pace, and was soon urged from that into a gallop by its driver. Rattle, rattle, bump! Went the little cart over the rough road; and Biddy, feeling that she must otherwise be tossed out like a nine-pin, clung desperately to her new master's many wrappings. The Reverend Roy drove very wild, she thought, and how dark it was! She could just dimly see on either side of her, as they bounded along, wide open country stretching far away in the distance; great gently swelling downs were lying there in the mysterious darkness, and all the winds of heaven seemed to have met above them to fight together. How it blew! And yet it managed to rain too at the same time. The wind battled with Biddy's umbrella, and tugged madly at her bonnet strings, and buffeted Mr Roy's wide-awake, and screamed exultingly as it blew out his pipe!

"Fresh up here, isn't it?" he remarked as he took it out of his mouth.

Fresh! Biddy had never felt so cold in her life, and could not have thought there had been so much fresh air in the whole world put together.

On they went, swinging up and down until her brain reeled; on, on, through the rain and whistling wind, over the lonely downs, while she strained her eyes in vain for sight or sound of a living creature. If this was what they meant by a "lonesome" place it was "terr'ble" indeed.

Hours seemed to pass in this way, and then the pony slackened its pace a little. Biddy peered from under the edge of the umbrella and could now make out that they were in a sort of lane, for instead of open country there was a hedge on each side of the road. They must be near Wavebury now, she thought, though she could see no houses or lights or people; her fingers were cramped and cold, and she could not cling on much longer either to her umbrella or Mr Roy's cloak. But suddenly the pony was checked to a walk, the cart ceased to jump up and down so wildly, and she was able to relax her hold, with a deep sigh of relief.

"It's an awkward bit just here," said Mr Roy, "for they've been felling a tree, and left pieces of it lying about in the road."

In front of them was a white gate which stood open and led into what looked like a farmyard, for there were sheds and outbuildings round it and straw scattered about. Through this they drove, jolting over a good many rough obstacles and then through another gate and stopped. They had arrived at last, and this was Truslow Manor. All Biddy could see, however, was a deep stone porch, with a seat on each side of it like the entrance to a church, and then a massive oak door, with heavy hinges and a great brass knocker. There was no light anywhere; but presently, as Biddy, stiff with cold, was preparing to unwind her many wrappings, the door swung slowly back, and a little figure appeared with a lamp in its hand. By its faint glimmer she recognised her new mistress, Mrs Roy, whom she had already seen in London.

"Oh, Richard," said a plaintive voice, "how glad I am you're back! Is the girl there?"

"Here we are," answered Mr Roy cheerfully, as he helped Biddy to climb out of the cart.

"It's an awful night. How's the baby?"

"I don't think she's _worse_, but the spots are still there, and Mr Smith hasn't been. Come in, Biddy."

Following her mistress Biddy found herself in a narrow stone passage, and caught through an open door to the left a glimpse of a panelled room lighted up by a great glowing wood fire. It looked splendidly comfortable after the cold dreariness outside. Mrs Roy opened another door at the end of the passage.

"Mrs Shivers," she said to some invisible person within, "here's Biddy Lane. Please, give her some tea, and let her get warm, and then send her to me in the drawing-room."

The door closed on Biddy, and Mrs Roy returned to the panelled room, where her husband, having emerged from his wet wrappings, was spreading his hands over the blaze and shivering.

"Well, Richard," she said earnestly, "what do you think of her?"

"Of whom?" asked Richard.

"Why, of the girl."

"Well, I think, judging by myself, she must be cold and hungry."

"She's _very_ small," continued Mrs Roy, sitting down in a low chair and glancing thoughtfully at the cradle which stood near it--"smaller than I thought."

"Who? The baby?"

"No. Of course, I mean the girl. I wish you wouldn't joke, Richard, when you know how anxious I am."

"I didn't mean to, really," said Mr Roy penitently, as his wife looked up at him with distressed blue eyes. "Only, as you always call the baby `She,' how was I to know? As to being _small_, you know--well, the last girl was _big_ enough, I'm sure."

"And stupid enough," added Mrs Roy sadly. "I couldn't have kept her, even if she hadn't insisted on going away."

"I suppose you've cautioned Mrs Shivers not to gossip to this girl?" said Mr Roy in lowered tones.

"Oh, yes, indeed," answered his wife, casting a nervous glance round the room. "She won't hear anything about _that_. And I do hope, if she's handy with the baby, that she'll stay. It _would_ be such a comfort. Only I wish she wasn't so small."

At this moment the door opened, and, after some hoarsely encouraging whispers from Mrs Shivers, who remained unseen, the small form of Biddy herself appeared. She had put on a white apron and a large cap; there was a great deal of cap and apron and very little of Biddy, and being nervous, she stood with her arms hanging forward in rather a helpless way which did not impress Mrs Roy favourably. Fortunately for Biddy, however, the baby, wakened just then by the noise of the door, began to cry, and its mother stooped over the cradle and lifted the child in her arms. Biddy's shyness vanished. The cry of a baby was to her as the sound of trumpets is to a war-horse. She advanced eagerly and stood close to her mistress.

"The baby's not at all well to-night," said Mrs Roy appealingly. "She's covered with tiny red spots, and _so_ feverish. I'm expecting the doctor every minute."

Biddy came still nearer, and examined the small face attentively.

"Lor'! Mum," she exclaimed triumphantly, "you've no call to mind about that. That's only thrush, that is. Three of ourn had it, and did beautiful. She's bound to be a bit fretful, but she won't come to no harm, so long as you keep her warm."

The confidence with which Biddy spoke, and the manner in which she shortly afterwards took the baby in her arms, and soothed it to sleep with a proper rocking movement of one foot, comforted Mrs Roy immensely. And when the doctor came he confirmed Biddy's opinion. It _was_ thrush. After that Mrs Roy went to bed happier in her mind than she had been for weeks. Though small, her new nurse-maid would evidently prove a support and a treasure; the only thing to be questioned now was--would she stay?

STORY TWO, CHAPTER 2.

TRUSLOW MANOR.

Truslow Manor, where the curate and his wife lived, and Biddy had come to take care of the baby, had belonged in days gone by to the ancient family of Truslow.

There were no Truslows in Wavebury now, but traces of them were still left there, for in the church there was not only an antiquely carved pew called the "Truslow Pew," but also a tablet in the chancel bearing the date 1593, which set forth the virtues of a certain John Truslow in the following terms:--

"The body of John Truslow here doth rest,
Who, dying, did his soule to Heaven bequest.
The race he lived here on earth was threescore years and seven,
Deceased in Aprill, '93, and then was prest to Heaven.
His faith in Christ most steadfastly was set,
In 'sured Hope to satisfy His debt.
A lively Theme to take example by,
Condemning Deth in Hope a Saint to dye."

Notwithstanding this the people of Wavebury did not hold the memory of the Truslows in much veneration; they had been "a bad lot," it was rumoured, and the old manor-house, which still bore their name, was looked on with suspicion as a place which had possibly witnessed many a deed of darkness. But the days both of its wickedness and grandeur were now over, and it stood in the fields with a forlorn and deserted air, although its mullioned windows and panelled rooms and tall chimneys gave it a look of decayed dignity. One wing of it, however, had completely disappeared; at the back, which was near the road, it was hemmed in by mean sheds and outbuildings, and the front was approached, not by a stately avenue, but by a little wicket gate leading through a field without a footpath. Small and needy farmers had been its only tenants for years, but when Mr and Mrs Roy came to Wavebury they took a fancy to the old house, and arranged to hire five rooms in it. Terms being satisfactorily settled with Mr Shivers, their landlord, who with his wife continued to occupy the other part of the house, they took up their abode with much comfort and contentment, and, when Biddy arrived, had been living there for nearly two years. They were fond of Truslow Manor, and found only one little drawback to it, which, they were accustomed to say to each other, was hardly worth mentioning; for the present, therefore, we will not mention it either.